LETTER FROM A SOLDIER
Harper's Weekly, February 11, 1865, page 93 (Article-Correspondence)
The world’s ear is full of cries from the shadowland of rebel barbarism, where suffering and death sit at every prison-door, and starvation walks at the side of every captive. Thousands of true hearts at the North have bled at the recital of the horrors of the Libey, of Andersonville, Danville, and Salisbury; and far lands, looking across the ocean, have shuddered as the spectacle of rebel barbarity developed before their eyes, wondering how, in a Christian land, such things could be. It is perhaps an old story now; but if you will let me, I will tell you what I have seen and felt and know of slaveholder’s mercy while yet the touch of their fierce cruelty is upon me.
My introduction into the living death at Andersonville occurred on the 7th of July last, and I remained in its clutch until the 22d of October following. In all that period not one gleam of comfort illuminated the misery of our bondage. The camp embraced thirty acres, surrounded by a stockade twelve feet high. Here during the month of August 30,000 prisoners were crowded together like cattle, for the most part without any shelter whatever from the heat or frequent rains. At night, during rainy weather, they lay on the ground in groups, remaining thus until morning, wet to the skin, and with no fire to dry their scanty clothing. Occasionally the days were intensely hot, followed by rainy nights, inducing necessarily sickness among all except the ore robust, the want of proper food predisposing the system to disease. The daily fare consisted of less than a pint of meal, four spoonfuls of rice, three spoonfuls of beans, and two ounces of bacon; sometime, however, only a part of these articles were received, and then in a damaged state. A favorite dish consisted in taking a pint of meal, mixing it with water, and making it into dumplings about the size of an egg, which were boiled with pieces of bacon of the size of marbles until they floated on the top of the soup thus made. Then taking out the dumplings, we cut them open and poured in the soup—having thus a dish which to us was a luxury, though in other times we would not have insulted our palates by offering them such a "mess." Sometimes we made coffee by burning pieces of corn-bread, and boiling it in tin cups, drinking the product, of course, without either sugar or milk. At other times, in the absence of other food, we dug up roots and ate them.
There being no sanitary regulations in the camp, and no proper medical provisions, sickness and death were inevitable accompaniments of our imprisonment. Thousands of the prisoners were so afflicted with scurvy that their limbs were ready to drop from their bodies. I have seen the maggots scooped out by the handful from the sores of these sufferers. I have seen others, mere skeletons, wasted by disease, dying by inches, with not an ounce of medicine, nor a hand lifted anywhere among those in charge of the camp for their relief. On one occasion, when a physician gave notice that he would examine a portion of the sick men, over three thousand poor wretches, scarcely able to crawl, appeared before him; some carried on stretchers, and others in blankets, carried by comrades. Many lay before the physician in the last throes of death; and several, who were taken up alive, were corpses before reaching the point appointed for the examination, which, after all, amounted only to an inspection. On another occasion a gang of men were employed two hours and a half in carrying out the dead from a section of the camp known as the hospital. On one day in August no less than one hundred and sixty prisoners died, and the average was about ninety deaths daily. From the 1st of March to the 16th of September sixteen thousand Federal soldiers, prisoners of war, were carried from that camp to the dead man’s trench and the felons’ burial! The method of burial was usually as follows: The dead were gathered up by detachments of the prisoners, and carried outside of the stockade, where they were laid in a row under a cluster of trees. Thence the bodies were carried in wagons, into which they were thrown at random, to a ditch at some distance from the camp, where they were tumbled out, covered with a thin layer of earth, and so left. Many a brave and loyal soldier of the Republic, who had won honorable scars in the battle’s van, found thus at last the burial of a dog at rebel hands.
But our tormentors did not confine their cruelty to depriving us of proper food and medical attendance. They had another devil’s device for maiming and killing, namely, "The Dead Line." This line consisted of a row of stakes driven into the ground—with boards fastened on the top—at a distance of about fifteen feet from the stockade on the inner side. This line was closely watched by a guard, and any prisoner who approached it—and many often unconsciously did, and as, in the crowd, was often unavoidable—was instantly shot dead. Frequently the guard fired indiscriminately into a crowd; on one occasion I saw one man killed and another wounded, both of whom were innocent and standing some distance from the line. There was a standing order that any sentinel who killed a Union solder for approaching the Dead Line should receive furlough for two months; and, for wounding one, a furlough for one month. This order not only offered a premium for murder, but encouraged the guard in other outrages, against which we had no defense whatever.
Perhaps you wonder what we did in the long days and nights of our imprisonment? What could we do? Crowd thirty thousand sick, starving, dying men into a space of thirty acres, and what opportunity is there for any thing but suffering? In all our camp there were but two streets—"Broadway" and "Market" we called them—neither over ten feet wide; and it was impossible, even had we been disposed, to indulge in games or amusements of any athletic nature in avenues like these, along which, lying in the sun or under the starlight, dead men could be seen, pale and ghastly, at any hour of the day or night. What did we do? We talked of home; of wives, mothers, and sisters, upon whose faces we did not expect, many of us, ever to look again; talked drearily of battles past and woes to come. What are they thinking and doing at home? Do they miss us, and long for our coming? Are they all still among the living? These were the questions we debated with ourselves and with one another. But chiefly we talked of our daily fare; dwelling with childish pleasure upon those rare meals which more nearly satisfied our clamoring appetites. The nearer we came to starvation the more we talked of choice and dainty dishes; planning for ourselves feasts of all toothsome things in the day when relief should come; counting up on our fingers the rare substantials and desserts with which our palates should be regaled in that coming time.
At length, on the 27th of October, an order came for the removal of all but six thousand of the prisoners from Andersonville to Millen. How hope stirred within us at the good news! How all clamored to go! How the pallid faces of the dying grew paler still when, begging to be removed, they were told they must remain! Remain to die—to die away from home and friends, with no soft hand to smooth the rough way into the rest that is starless! No more hope for them! How other faces grew bright at the prospect of deliverance! How scores of weak, suffering ones dragged themselves into line, and, with painful steps and slow, passed out to join the company of the chosen! More than one poor fellow, whose sufferings had won my pity, and whose patience had made me feel for him as a brother, I left behind me that fair autumn day; but their faces haunt me still in the quiet nights, and their sobbing good-bys sound yet in my ears.
At Millen we remained four weeks, and were then conveyed to Savannah for exchange. I shall never forget the feeling that overwhelmed me when, for the first time in months, I saw the old flag again—the dear old flag under which I had so often fought—for which I was ready to die in honorable battle. How we cried when we found ourselves under its folds on the deck of a loyal ship! How we sat down in groups and talked softly one with another of home and friends, and wondered whether, now that the boon we had all so longed for was within reach, we should really reach and enjoy it!
Well, we hoisted anchor and sailed out upon the pure, fresh sea, and came at last to Annapolis, a sick, maimed, emaciated company. There kind hands cared for us, kind welcomes cheered us, and we knew that we were home at last—home, with the arms of a great nation around us, sheltering and sustaining us with the great love of a noble, loyal heart.
When I left the camp at Millen my apparel consisted only of a blouse, pants, and shoes. Many had not even the blouse; some were without shoes; all were ragged, lean, and wretched. But Father Abraham has reclothed us since then—those of us who are left—with loyal blue, and, God willing, we will wear it again in the battle’s front, as, under the old flag, we, with the Cause, keep marching on!
E.H.T.
Newark, January, 1865
1. Describe the Andersonville experience.
2. Why were soldiers so quick to shoot anyone at “the dead line”?
3. What happened to this soldier’s patriotism as a result of his experience?
Harper's Weekly, February 11, 1865, page 93 (Article-Correspondence)
The world’s ear is full of cries from the shadowland of rebel barbarism, where suffering and death sit at every prison-door, and starvation walks at the side of every captive. Thousands of true hearts at the North have bled at the recital of the horrors of the Libey, of Andersonville, Danville, and Salisbury; and far lands, looking across the ocean, have shuddered as the spectacle of rebel barbarity developed before their eyes, wondering how, in a Christian land, such things could be. It is perhaps an old story now; but if you will let me, I will tell you what I have seen and felt and know of slaveholder’s mercy while yet the touch of their fierce cruelty is upon me.
My introduction into the living death at Andersonville occurred on the 7th of July last, and I remained in its clutch until the 22d of October following. In all that period not one gleam of comfort illuminated the misery of our bondage. The camp embraced thirty acres, surrounded by a stockade twelve feet high. Here during the month of August 30,000 prisoners were crowded together like cattle, for the most part without any shelter whatever from the heat or frequent rains. At night, during rainy weather, they lay on the ground in groups, remaining thus until morning, wet to the skin, and with no fire to dry their scanty clothing. Occasionally the days were intensely hot, followed by rainy nights, inducing necessarily sickness among all except the ore robust, the want of proper food predisposing the system to disease. The daily fare consisted of less than a pint of meal, four spoonfuls of rice, three spoonfuls of beans, and two ounces of bacon; sometime, however, only a part of these articles were received, and then in a damaged state. A favorite dish consisted in taking a pint of meal, mixing it with water, and making it into dumplings about the size of an egg, which were boiled with pieces of bacon of the size of marbles until they floated on the top of the soup thus made. Then taking out the dumplings, we cut them open and poured in the soup—having thus a dish which to us was a luxury, though in other times we would not have insulted our palates by offering them such a "mess." Sometimes we made coffee by burning pieces of corn-bread, and boiling it in tin cups, drinking the product, of course, without either sugar or milk. At other times, in the absence of other food, we dug up roots and ate them.
There being no sanitary regulations in the camp, and no proper medical provisions, sickness and death were inevitable accompaniments of our imprisonment. Thousands of the prisoners were so afflicted with scurvy that their limbs were ready to drop from their bodies. I have seen the maggots scooped out by the handful from the sores of these sufferers. I have seen others, mere skeletons, wasted by disease, dying by inches, with not an ounce of medicine, nor a hand lifted anywhere among those in charge of the camp for their relief. On one occasion, when a physician gave notice that he would examine a portion of the sick men, over three thousand poor wretches, scarcely able to crawl, appeared before him; some carried on stretchers, and others in blankets, carried by comrades. Many lay before the physician in the last throes of death; and several, who were taken up alive, were corpses before reaching the point appointed for the examination, which, after all, amounted only to an inspection. On another occasion a gang of men were employed two hours and a half in carrying out the dead from a section of the camp known as the hospital. On one day in August no less than one hundred and sixty prisoners died, and the average was about ninety deaths daily. From the 1st of March to the 16th of September sixteen thousand Federal soldiers, prisoners of war, were carried from that camp to the dead man’s trench and the felons’ burial! The method of burial was usually as follows: The dead were gathered up by detachments of the prisoners, and carried outside of the stockade, where they were laid in a row under a cluster of trees. Thence the bodies were carried in wagons, into which they were thrown at random, to a ditch at some distance from the camp, where they were tumbled out, covered with a thin layer of earth, and so left. Many a brave and loyal soldier of the Republic, who had won honorable scars in the battle’s van, found thus at last the burial of a dog at rebel hands.
But our tormentors did not confine their cruelty to depriving us of proper food and medical attendance. They had another devil’s device for maiming and killing, namely, "The Dead Line." This line consisted of a row of stakes driven into the ground—with boards fastened on the top—at a distance of about fifteen feet from the stockade on the inner side. This line was closely watched by a guard, and any prisoner who approached it—and many often unconsciously did, and as, in the crowd, was often unavoidable—was instantly shot dead. Frequently the guard fired indiscriminately into a crowd; on one occasion I saw one man killed and another wounded, both of whom were innocent and standing some distance from the line. There was a standing order that any sentinel who killed a Union solder for approaching the Dead Line should receive furlough for two months; and, for wounding one, a furlough for one month. This order not only offered a premium for murder, but encouraged the guard in other outrages, against which we had no defense whatever.
Perhaps you wonder what we did in the long days and nights of our imprisonment? What could we do? Crowd thirty thousand sick, starving, dying men into a space of thirty acres, and what opportunity is there for any thing but suffering? In all our camp there were but two streets—"Broadway" and "Market" we called them—neither over ten feet wide; and it was impossible, even had we been disposed, to indulge in games or amusements of any athletic nature in avenues like these, along which, lying in the sun or under the starlight, dead men could be seen, pale and ghastly, at any hour of the day or night. What did we do? We talked of home; of wives, mothers, and sisters, upon whose faces we did not expect, many of us, ever to look again; talked drearily of battles past and woes to come. What are they thinking and doing at home? Do they miss us, and long for our coming? Are they all still among the living? These were the questions we debated with ourselves and with one another. But chiefly we talked of our daily fare; dwelling with childish pleasure upon those rare meals which more nearly satisfied our clamoring appetites. The nearer we came to starvation the more we talked of choice and dainty dishes; planning for ourselves feasts of all toothsome things in the day when relief should come; counting up on our fingers the rare substantials and desserts with which our palates should be regaled in that coming time.
At length, on the 27th of October, an order came for the removal of all but six thousand of the prisoners from Andersonville to Millen. How hope stirred within us at the good news! How all clamored to go! How the pallid faces of the dying grew paler still when, begging to be removed, they were told they must remain! Remain to die—to die away from home and friends, with no soft hand to smooth the rough way into the rest that is starless! No more hope for them! How other faces grew bright at the prospect of deliverance! How scores of weak, suffering ones dragged themselves into line, and, with painful steps and slow, passed out to join the company of the chosen! More than one poor fellow, whose sufferings had won my pity, and whose patience had made me feel for him as a brother, I left behind me that fair autumn day; but their faces haunt me still in the quiet nights, and their sobbing good-bys sound yet in my ears.
At Millen we remained four weeks, and were then conveyed to Savannah for exchange. I shall never forget the feeling that overwhelmed me when, for the first time in months, I saw the old flag again—the dear old flag under which I had so often fought—for which I was ready to die in honorable battle. How we cried when we found ourselves under its folds on the deck of a loyal ship! How we sat down in groups and talked softly one with another of home and friends, and wondered whether, now that the boon we had all so longed for was within reach, we should really reach and enjoy it!
Well, we hoisted anchor and sailed out upon the pure, fresh sea, and came at last to Annapolis, a sick, maimed, emaciated company. There kind hands cared for us, kind welcomes cheered us, and we knew that we were home at last—home, with the arms of a great nation around us, sheltering and sustaining us with the great love of a noble, loyal heart.
When I left the camp at Millen my apparel consisted only of a blouse, pants, and shoes. Many had not even the blouse; some were without shoes; all were ragged, lean, and wretched. But Father Abraham has reclothed us since then—those of us who are left—with loyal blue, and, God willing, we will wear it again in the battle’s front, as, under the old flag, we, with the Cause, keep marching on!
E.H.T.
Newark, January, 1865
1. Describe the Andersonville experience.
2. Why were soldiers so quick to shoot anyone at “the dead line”?
3. What happened to this soldier’s patriotism as a result of his experience?